


can't see you past all these stars in my eyes

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson is yearning for real tho, Coulson's major crush on Skye, F/M, Hunter knows what's up, Hunter's pretty smart actually, I guess this is kind of dressing kink, I've been to the Wikipedia page about Vegas, I've never been to Vegas, Kiss The Girl, Kissing, Lola can just drive really fast okay, Resolved Sexual Tension, Skye's sweet tooth, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but could Skye make any more eyes at Coulson I mean really, idk what is American geography you guys, jesus christ so much pining, let's get drunk in a hotel room, sure whatever they're a couple of hours from Las Vegas it makes the story work, these crazy beautiful idiots, these pining orphans in love, what happens in vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2-finale. </p><p>"Can we go to Vegas?" </p><p>Coulson's tired of saying no, is the thing. It feels like he's been doing it for so long.</p><p>They're in a red Corvette with the top down, and the sun's shining on her hair, and she's smiling, and Phil feels like his heart hurts with how good it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. all of the lights in here baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts), [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> who got me into this ship with all their best fic. Also, pining.

They've just finished visiting Cal, and Coulson's not totally sure how Skye's feeling, but she's seemed receptive to the Caterpillar project, and it feels good to be away from the Playground. Everything's a bit deeply weird and tenuous and tense, and Coulson knows they both have a lot of feelings they carefully haven't been feeling - about his arm, and her mom, and her dad, and Gonzales, and SHIELD in general - but there's sun shining on them, and Skye's in the driver's seat. It could be worse.

"Coulson. Can we go to Vegas?" she asks, suddenly.

"What, like, in general? I guess," he says, confused.

"No, like,  _now_. Can we drive to Vegas? For the night? Take a break from everything? We can get there in a couple of hours, from here. Drive down the Strip, look at all the lights, it's something I've always wanted to do."

Coulson's tired of saying no, is the thing. It feels like he's been doing it for so long. "Sure," he concedes. "Why not. Vegas. You want to go get anything from the base, first?"

"Nope," Skye says, and before he can react she's stolen his sunglasses from his suit pocket, is sliding them onto her own face, cheekily grinning at him as she floors the gas. They're in a red Corvette with the top down, and the sun's shining on her hair, and she's _smiling_ , and Phil feels like his heart hurts with how  _good_ it is.

 

+

 

They make it to Las Vegas just as dusk's setting in, the sky a luminous pink-lilac backdrop against all the neon. Skye drops the car back onto the road when they're a few miles out, drives the last stretch in thoughtful silence.

"Hungry?" she asks, turning to look at him, and he  _is_ hungry, he realises, hungry like he hasn't really been, the last couple of weeks.

"Yes," he says, honestly, and she smiles, pulls in at a diner just outside the city limits.

The waitress seats them at a booth looking out into the desert, brings them menus, recommends the cherry pie. They order cheeseburgers, fries, a vanilla milkshake for Skye. Coulson tries to take his suit jacket off, while they're waiting for the food, but it's difficult, with the sling. Skye watches in silence for a moment, then slides out of the seat opposite, moves in next to him.

"Let me help you," she says, matter-of-fact, and Coulson has a fierce stab of not  _wanting_ to be helped, but it's Skye. She can do this. He sighs, lifts the sling off, and lets her help him out of his jacket. He loosens his tie, afterwards, one-handed, tucks the sling back on. He wants to roll up his shirt cuff on his good hand and when he realises this, too, is impossible without help, he sighs again, turns to her. She takes his hand in both of hers, sets it on her thigh, and begins to unbutton the cuff, looking at him very intently. His cheeks feel hot; he realises he's blushing. _Blushing_? She rolls the cuff, her fingers trailing lightly up the inside of his wrist and forearm, and when she's done, he doesn't move his hand from her thigh for a long moment. _Too_ _long_ , he thinks, but doesn't move it, still.

"Here's your food!" the waitress says cheerfully, startling them both. Skye doesn't move back to the other side of the booth, like Coulson expects, but stays in her seat next to him. Her thigh is pressed against his, a long stripe of heat, and she doesn't move it away. She eats her burger fast, while Coulson takes longer, eating one-handed but not too awkwardly, and when she's finished she starts filching his fries with the same insouciance as she when she'd stolen his sunglasses that afternoon.

"Hey, you," he says mock-sternly, elbowing her, and she just grins and offers him a sip of her milkshake. He shakes his head, finishes up the last few fries, and she decides out loud that she's going to try the pie, after all.

It arrives with ice cream, and Skye eats it slowly, now, staring past him out into the dark of the desert. When she asks if he wants a bite, he doesn't say no, and instead of passing him the spoon like he thinks she's going to, she loads it up with buttery pastry and fruit and soft ice cream and holds it up for him to lean in and accept. It's too, too intimate, even in the bright light of the diner, and he worries he's made a bad call, coming here on such a whim, but saying _yes_ felt so good. She has a drop of melted ice cream sitting on her lower lip, and he wonders what it would be like to lean in further and lick it off, whether she'd kiss back tasting sweetly of vanilla. He doesn't. He sits back in his seat, follows her gaze out into the desert. There are mountains out there, he knows, but they're invisible now.

 

+ 

 

When they leave the diner, the air is colder, and Skye shivers. Coulson still has his jacket off, and he drapes it around her shoulders. She snuggles into it, gratefully, slides her arms into the too-long sleeves and pushes them up past her wrists. She doesn't get back into the car immediately but leans against the bonnet, looking forward at the Las Vegas Strip a shining beacon ahead of them. Her face and hair are lit up bright with neon. He joins her, willing himself not to slide an arm around her.

"Any preference on a hotel?" he asks.

"I was thinking the Bellagio," Skye says casually.

"Really?"

"I like the fountains," she shrugs. He shrugs too, because it's as good a reason as any, he supposes.

"Sure," he agrees, easily. "They've got a beautiful art gallery, too. We could go, tomorrow." She nods abstractly and leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm tired," she says quietly. "This is good, though." And it is, it is, it's so good, Coulson thinks. His ghost hand itches to touch her.

 

+

 

Skye checks in for them, at the hotel, having delivered Lola to the valet outside. Coulson's carrying the go-bag from the boot, nothing much but a duffel bag with a change of clothes and his pain meds and a very un-metal-detectable gun. It's something he's always done, since joining SHIELD. He didn't know it'd come in useful on a spur of the moment road trip.

He doesn't realise, until she's sliding the key-card into the door, that she's booked them a single room. It doesn't make sense to pay for two, he guesses, but his heart flips at the idea, at the thought of _waking up_ to Skye sleepy and warm and close. It's a big room, all cream and indigo and silver, with a giant bed and a window looking out over the lake and fountains.

"How are we  _paying_ for this?" he asks curiously, and Skye laughs.

"Would you believe Cal had, uh, a nefarious secret account?" she replies. "I guess it's mine, now. Figured blowing an inheritance on a road trip to Vegas was an experience worth trying." Coulson's heart hurts again, at that, but Skye looks back at him, quirks an eyebrow, and he realises he's still standing in the doorway carrying the bag. He comes in, drops it at the foot of the bed and crosses to the window. Skye slides off his jacket and hangs it up carefully, rolls her shoulders out in a comprehensive stretch, then goes to investigate the mini-bar.

She drops ice cubes tinkling into a heavy crystal tumbler, cracks open a bottle. "Do you want a drink?" she calls, from behind the door of the fridge.

"I'm not supposed to mix alcohol with my meds," he says, doubtfully.

"Do you  _want_ a drink?" she repeats.

"Yes," he replies again, honestly, and swears he hears her smile.

"Ice?"

"No, I'll have whisky neat," he says, and she pours whisky into two glasses, closes the fridge and comes to join him at the window. He takes a sip of the drink she hands him; it's very good whisky, burning sweet and smoky and strong. The ice in her glass clinks as she drinks; they're both silent for a long minute.

"What do you want to do now?" he asks her, breaking the silence, and she looks up. 

"I'm going to take a bath," she smiles, "and have another drink, and I was thinking I might order midnight room service. Maybe watch some trashy cable."

"It's a plan," he answers. "But only if room service will deliver some Little Debbie."

 

+

 

When Skye disappears into the bathroom, the sound of water running a soft white noise in the background, he takes the opportunity to call back to the Playground. May's on vacation, and nobody's  _expecting_ them, but he figures he should check in just to be sure. Everything's fine (he and Skye are on a _team mission_ , he says, and feels a rush of embarrassment at the lie, but he doesn't know what else to call it. He doesn't know what else it might be.) He tugs off his tie and unbuttons his collar, sinking into a softly overstuffed armchair. He drinks the rest of his whisky and slowly, slowly lets himself relax.

Skye comes out, eventually, wrapped in a white bathrobe and carrying her glass. She tops it up, not bothering with more ice, and looks thoughtfully across at him.

"Hey Coulson?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I wanna cut my hair."

"Tomorrow?" he yawns. "I'm sure they have a salon that could fit you in."

"No, like,  _now_. Come help me?" Coulson frowns.

"I think maybe that's above a one-arm paygrade," he says, and Skye shrugs, takes a sip of her drink and goes back into the bathroom carrying a half-full tumbler. Coulson can't help it; he gets up and follows her in. The bathroom is gleamingly marble tile and she's turned down the lights; the mirror is still steamed up and the room smells sweetly of bubble bath.  


"You'll get hair all over your shirt and pants," she says doubtfully, looking at him in the mirror. He shrugs, so she shrugs too and hands him a pair of scissors.

"How, uh, short do you want it?" he asks her. Skye considers her reflection, holds a lock of hair just above her shoulder. 

"About here?"

"I... okay." Coulson tucks the scissors into his sling and leans in, to grab the comb off the vanity in front of her. He begins to pull the comb through her hair, very gently, trying to get it smooth and straight. It's still damp from the bath; he wants to run his fingers through it.

When it's as smooth as he thinks he can get it, he puts the comb down, takes the scissors. Meets her eyes in the mirror. "Are you _sure_ ," he says lightly, because if he makes this a Moment he thinks his heart might not actually survive. She nods, blows out a breath, so he slides the blade of the scissors in, snips it off carefully at the base of her neck.

It's difficult, working one-handed, and he's worried it won't turn out straight, but Skye doesn't seem to care. "Turn around," he says eventually, and she turns to face him so he can cut the strands at the front. Coulson can smell the whisky on her breath, is very aware of how close they are, and for the first time he's glad for the sling across his chest, creating a small distance between them. He snips the front quickly, checking that each side is even, and she turns back to face the mirror.

He leans in again, trying not to press his body against hers. He puts the scissors down on the vanity and takes the comb to brush her hair out. It's drying now, curling up in waves, and the nape of her neck is bare. He brushes away the lock of hair caught on her skin, runs his fingers lightly up into the tangle of curls, leaves his hand pressed against the back of her neck. He knows she's looking at him, in the mirror, and he doesn't know what she can see in his face. He doesn't, can't, look up. This is a thing, this is  _such_ a thing, he's the Director of SHIELD and he's twice her age and he's really, really not sure what they're doing, now.

Skye turns around, again, leans back against the vanity and brings her tumbler up to her mouth but doesn't drink, just rests the rim of the glass against her lip. "You're covered in hair," she says eventually, "like I said you would be."

"I can get it laundered," he replies, and if she hears the huskiness in his voice she doesn't let on.

"You should take a bath," she suggests. "It's good, I can run you one." A bath might be good, he thinks, and it'd be better to keep his arm dry. "Let me just sweep up," she adds, and he nods, steps back and brushes off the worst of the loose hair on his shirt. Skye leans over to turn the bath tap on, and when her robe falls open he looks away. There's a fine strand of her hair across his wrist.

 

+

 

When he gets out of the bath, it's somehow  _less_ awkward, even though he's in his undershirt and boxers and wearing a bathrobe of his own. Skye is sitting cross-legged on the right hand side of the bed, wearing her t-shirt and with the covers pulled up to her waist. She's leaning back against a heap of pillows and idly flicking through tv channels, so he takes off his robe and gets into bed too, making sure to keep his distance. She leans over though, curls up against his side, sips her drink.

"There's no more whisky," she says quietly, "but you could try the vodka, I guess."

"I'll pass," Coulson says wryly. "I'll answer to Simmons as it is, for mixing my meds. Are you, uh... are you sure drinking is a good idea?" Skye laughs, pokes him in the ribs.

"Don't worry,  _sir_ , I won't lose control. Vegas is safe. I actually burn through it faster now. Inhuman metabolism. You couldn't get me drunk if you tried." Coulson is strangely reassured, by that. He guesses he doesn't want this to be some kind of drunken mistake. He still doesn't know what 'this' is. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's Skye holding a wake. Maybe it's something else.

"Anyway," she says, "we have a choice in trashy cable: Roman Holiday or Dirty Dancing. Not really trashy, either one, but what can I say, I have a soft spot for the classics. I  _can_ promise half a Butterfinger bar, if you ask me nicely." They settle on Roman Holiday, and he does get half the Butterfinger, after all, as the credits music swells.

Skye falls asleep on him, eventually, and he takes the crystal glass out of her hand before she can spill the rest of the whisky on the bed, sets it on the bedside table. He lets himself stroke her hair, now, and she mumbles in her sleep, flings an arm across his chest. Onscreen, Audrey Hepburn finally shares a kiss with Gregory Peck, in black and white 1950s Rome.

Outside, the fountains light up.


	2. stop saying no (start telling me yes)

Coulson wakes in the early morning to Skye still pressed close against him. In the night, she's stretched her leg up over his, her knee tucked neatly against the inside of his thigh, and her arm is still across his chest. It's comfortable, but she's very warm, radiating heat. He wonders if that's an Inhuman thing, the faster metabolism she mentioned, or if it's just Skye.

He shifts, realising his arm and shoulder are numb under her weight, and she rolls away, reaching back and grabbing at him to make him follow. He's sleepy enough to do so, moving onto his side behind her, and lightly rests his bad arm on her hip. He's not quite spooned up against her, but it's close. He could lean in and press a kiss to the back of her neck, if he wanted to.

He wants to. He closes his eyes, goes back to sleep, doesn't think about the way her bare leg was hot against his.

When he next wakes, it's to Skye sitting up in bed, speaking on the phone. "A pot of coffee," she says, rubbing her knuckles against her eyes. Room service, then. "Orange juice, and a plate of pancakes, with strawberries." He touches her lightly on the shoulder, holds up two fingers. "Sorry, that's  _two_ plates of pancakes. With strawberries, yeah. And syrup." She hangs up, slides back down into bed. "Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Well," he says, and is surprised to find that it's true. "I think I'm gonna shower?"

"Sure," Skye says, and turns the tv on to morning cartoons.

It's not until he's out of the shower and getting dressed that he remembers how frustrating getting dressed is, now. The change of clothes he has is casual for him, slacks and an oxford button-down over a white t-shirt, but he can't do up the pants  _or_ button his shirt. He gives up and steps out of the bathroom.

"Skye, I hate to ask, but..." he says, stiffly. She looks up, takes in the situation, and nods.

"Sure, let me just go brush my teeth, first?" She's quick about it, comes back out still in her robe, and stands in front of him, pulling his shirt together to start buttoning.

"Who did this for you on base?" she asks, her voice low. Coulson shrugs.

"Mostly Billy. Sometimes Andrew. Apparently I'll be able to do it for myself, in time." He waves his stump. "Once this is out of the sling for good, anyway. I'm looking into options. There's a doctor in South Korea who might have potential, in terms of prosthetics." Skye nods, focused on buttoning. She slides her fingers up his chest to the collar. 

"Buttoned all the way up?"

"No, leave it undone," he says, and she nods again.

"Do you want your shirt tucked in?" she asks, and Coulson feels a rush of heat. 

"Yes," he says, "but I've got it."

"Don't worry," Skye replies, and quickly tucks it in. She has to step into his space, reach around his back, and he can feel her breath on his throat. He holds himself very still. She buttons his waistband and he does up his fly before she can do  _that,_ too. She smirks.

"You want a belt?"

"Yeah, I... it's around here somewhere." He finds his suit trousers, pulls the belt out of the loops. Skye takes it from him, slides it through the loops on his hips, reaching around him again. She does up the buckle, pushes the end of the belt into place, leaves the fingers of one hand pressed on the buckle and her other hand on his hip. She stands, too close, for a long moment. Coulson realises he's holding his breath.

There's a knock on the door, and they both jump. "Room service!" someone calls, and Skye tightens her fingers on his hip, briefly, then goes to answer the door.

Coulson can still feel her fingers on his hip.

 

+

 

"Can we stay another night?" Skye asks, over pancakes drenched in syrup.  Coulson shrugs.

"I guess," he says. "I don't have another change of clothes, though."

"That's fine," she smiles. "I asked housekeeping to launder our stuff. Also, I already booked us for two nights. We're allowed to take a holiday, right?" Her tone is almost challenging, like he's going to tell her no, they have to go back to work. 

He's not going to tell her no.

After breakfast Skye showers too, and comes out in a fresh flannel shirt, jeans clinging to her hips and her newly short hair damp and curly. Phil remembers the go-bag is packed for both of them, wonders what that means. 

(If he's serious with himself, of course he knows what it means.)

"So," he says, draining the last of his coffee. "You want to hit up the slot machines?" Skye laughs.

"Sounds good," she replies, "but there's actually something I want to do, first. You can come, if you like. It might be boring."

Of course he goes with her.

They drive out into the desert, Skye flooring the accelerator until the wind's whipping at her hair and there's a plume of dust behind them.

"We going anywhere in particular?" he asks eventually, because they've been driving for an hour. Vegas is a smudge along the horizon. Skye looks over, one hand on the wheel. She's given him back his sunglasses, bought a pair of aviators from a boutique in the hotel. They suit her, he thinks.

"In Afterlife," she explains, "my mom taught me some things. I practiced on a mountain. You can't hurt a mountain, she said." Coulson smiles, at that.

"Did you?"

"I caused an avalanche," she admits, proud, makes him laugh. "But she was right. You can't hurt a mountain. You can't hurt a desert, either."

She slows Lola to a halt and they get out of the car, the dry ground crunching underfoot. The sun is high and the sky is very bright, a bowl of blue-white curving overhead. It's hot; he feels a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades.

"You should stay here, I think," Skye says, flicking a look at him. She doesn't seem  _nervous_ , but nervy, tense. He nods, grabs a bottle of water from the car, and leans against the bonnet, watching her stride off into an empty spot a few hundred yards from him. He's not sure what she's doing, exactly, so he settles into place, taking a sip of water.

Skye scuffs her feet into the ground, anchoring herself in a way that looks deliberate, then looks up at the sky above, balls her hands into fists, and screams. It echoes, distantly, and she screams again, no words, just a stream of sound that Coulson feels in his chest. The dust around her begins to shift, and he blinks, not sure what he's seeing. It spirals up around her, in a complex cloud, and somehow he knows that this is  _Skye_ , this is her power, this is something new.

She lets it (makes it) rise higher, until he can't see her, can only see fractals of dust spinning off into nothing.  _You can't hurt a desert_ , he thinks. Skye's an earthquake, a tornado, a screaming force of nature. _You can't hurt an earthquake, too,_ he thinks, and waits.

When she comes back, she looks tired but not exhausted, resolved like she's at peace. He doesn't know what he was expecting - tears, maybe? - but her face is dry. She has dust in her hair, and when he offers her the water she takes it gratefully, drinking for a long time. Then she gets back in the car, sits for a moment without starting the engine.

"I felt the San Andreas fault," she says at length, looking at him as if he might be afraid. "I could... if I tried, I think I could split the continent apart. If I tried." It's a terrifying thought, he supposes, but he's through with those fears.

"Good to know," he says lightly. "Could you not, though? It'd be a mess to clean up." She laughs, scrubs a hand over her face, and starts up the car.

 

+

 

When they get back into Vegas, late in the afternoon, Skye  _does_ hit up the slot machines, a bucket of change under one arm. Coulson watches long enough to see five cherries line up, then five trumps, five stars. "Skye, are you  _cheating at slot machines_?" he hisses into her ear, and she grins at him as coins tumble out. That is  _unacceptable_ , he thinks, because he might be head of a semi-illegal international organization but there are _rules_ about how to use superpowers, and drags her out. They wander the botanical gardens and conservatory instead, hothouse air pressing warm and fragrant against their skin. Skye tucks her hand into his, reaches out to lightly touch a fingertip to the petal of an orchid.

"Having a good vacation? Blown inheritance road trip everything you expected?" he asks, as through the hothouse glass they see the neon begin to blink into the evening sky. She nods, abstractly, spirals water up out of a koi pond and lets it fall back with a splash.

"Take me out for dinner," she says, artfully casual. "Not a diner, or a, a  _family restaurant_ , I want candles, and tablecloths, and, and, waiters that call me  _mademoiselle_ , okay."

Coulson's realising he'd give Skye anything she wants, anything she asks for, lately. It's a problem, maybe. He feels compromised. It doesn't stop him from saying yes.

"You need a dress," he teases, to give himself time. She looks down at her shirt, her boots dusty from the desert, and smiles.

"Give me an hour," she says, squeezes his hand and walks away.

He gives her two, makes a reservation at one of the hotel restaurants, considers his suit hanging freshly-pressed in their room and then gives in to temptation, goes and buys a new one. It's off the rack, and there's no time for tailoring, but Vegas boutiques aren't bad, and the assistant dresses him easily, ties his tie, gives him a military discount (and he has to laugh, right, at that. Talbot would be furious.)

Skye's back in their room when he returns, standing at the window looking out. She's wearing a white lace dress, the fabric very light against her skin, and her hair is in gentle curls against her neck. He's seen Skye dressed up before - the undercover job at Ian Quinn's, he thinks - but this is different, this is  _something_ , and he thinks maybe things are spiralling out of safety. (If he's honest, he knows that happened long before now.)

 

+

 

Dinner is just what Skye asked for, starched white tablecloths and candlelight. Coulson orders a bottle of Bordeaux for them to share during the meal, because he's basically thrown all caution to the wind now and whatever, this is a vacation for the both of them, there's not going to be another chance. Skye is luminous in candlelight, her eyes sparkling, and Coulson feels like he's a little drunk on this, maybe, on good wine and irresponsible decisions.

"We're both orphans now," she says out of nowhere, taking a thoughtful mouthful of wine. 

"Hmm," he agrees, because it's true, but he doesn't like to think about it like that, doesn't like the word 'orphan'. "We have family, though."

"SHIELD?" Skye laughs, but there's an edge he doesn't usually hear in her voice. She looks far away, sipping her wine again. "Phil, I... when I joined SHIELD, when I _properly_ joined, not when I was a Rising Tide spy... I thought I was getting a family. I wanted to be. It's every orphan's dream, right. You know that. But that's not _SHIELD_. Family doesn't send agents after someone because they're a threat. Family wouldn't have brought you back, when you were begging to die." Coulson's heart aches, as if there's scar tissue calcified deep in his chest (there is, there might be, he doesn't know). He feels stupidly naiive, stupidly idealistic.

"I joined for you," she says, abruptly. "I joined because I wanted - I wanted to be someone like you, to be someone  _you'd like_. If you asked, I'd leave, I'd walk away, if you thought SHIELD wasn't safe for me anymore. But instead you're going to fix SHIELD, because you're _that guy_ , Coulson, you can't walk away from this. And I can't either, I can't walk away. I'm gonna be there, and you've asked me to run Caterpillar, and I'll do that, because  _you asked_ , and you know I'll say yes, for you." She bites her lip, looks down at her hands, looks back up. "That's family, Coulson. That's... I don't want to compromise you. Not in the way Weaver thinks. But I want to be someone like you."

He can't think of anything to say, in reply, because Skye's not like him, she's  _better_ , and he feels so responsible for how things have played out that it sticks in his throat. So he drinks his wine, orders Skye a huge and ridiculous dessert and lets her enjoy the end of the night.

 

They finish at the restaurant, lingering over dessert and coffee, and she doesn't seem interested in going anywhere, just yet. He suggests a walk, outside, and they wind up at the edge of the lake outside the hotel, looking out at the still water twinkling under the lights. The fountains begin to play, along with very familiar strains of music, and Skye laughs.

"This  _song_ , oh my god," she says, shaking her head. "We must have watched this movie a million times, at St Agnes." She leans in against him, watches the water play. Coulson watches her face, lit up bright. Around them, tourists jostle to watch the show. Sprays of water arch into the air, lit up in shifting colour, and Celine Dion plays over the loudspeakers. He feels like he's in a film, although frankly if this were his film there'd be significantly better music. _  
_

"Anything else you want?" he asks. "Last night in Vegas?" She turns to him, suddenly very serious. There's a fine spray of misted water clinging to her cheek and her dress reflects the neon colours of the fountain display.

"Let's get married," she says, and it takes his breath away. He laughs, because of course it's a joke, running away to elope in Vegas, except it's not, apparently, not a joke or a hallucination or anything else but his stupid beautiful life. "Let's just, let's run away and get married in Vegas," she says again, nervy and determined and intent. "I love you, Phil, I've been in love with you for, like,  _crazy_ in love with you, and all I want is, I want  _us_. I know, Coulson, it's crazy, it's nuts, but don't say no, just... just say yes."

He was never going to say no, is the thing. "Yes," he says, and behind them the fountains shoot into a plume a hundred feet high. _Skye could do that_ , Coulson thinks, reminded of Skye's dust cloud, of tornados, of earthquakes tearing the world apart. " _Yes_ , okay. Yes." 

"Yes?" she says, uncertain suddenly after all her brave front, and he leans down to kiss her, because this isn't a marriage of convenience, or a way for orphans to create their own family, or a reaction to grief or uncertainty or complicated feelings. This is something that could burn SHIELD down, could burn them both apart, could compromise them both in the worst way, and it feels like fire and heat and pain and joy.

He'd wondered if she would kiss back. She does. She kisses back like a force of nature.

 


	3. we're a natural disaster about to happen in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (play the game: can you pick the Dollhouse ref)

Coulson flatly vetoes a wedding officiated by an Elvis impersonator, because they might be living an actual film cliche, here, but he has  _standards_. Skye concedes the point and lets him pick a reasonably respectable all-night chapel.  _What_ , Coulson thinks, as they fill out the marriage certificate, and  _what_ , again, when Skye produces two rings, and really, seriously, _what_ , as the minister pronounces them husband and wife.

"Did you plan this?" he asks her, as they're walking back to the hotel. Her left hand is in his right, and the gold bands clink against each other, very softly.

"No," she says, and then, "yes. I don't know."

"The white dress, the rings," he teases. "The  _candlelight_." She steps sideways into him, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.

"I didn't! I swear. Well, the _rings_. Saw them while I was shopping. I didn't think I could ask, like, ever, but I'm enough of a sap that I bought them anyway. I didn't think you'd say yes, ever, too," she admits, and Coulson pauses, looks seriously at her, because this has been Skye blazing bright and hard and fierce, and he thinks she deserves to hear it properly.

"I love you," he tells her. "I didn't... Skye, I am so utterly head over heels in love with you, of _course_ I'd say yes." Something switches in him, and this doesn't feel surprising, or sudden, it feels like they've been building to this their entire relationship, been leading to it from the day they met. It feels like the slow shift of continents.

 

+

 

He thinks Skye might be shy, when they get back to the hotel. He was wrong. She pushes him up against the door as soon as they're in the room, licks into his mouth, bites at his lower lip. Her hands slide up under his jacket, pulling at his shirt until it's untucked, and then she's got her hands on his skin, skittering her fingers up his ribs. He moans, tangles his hand up in her hair, sinks his teeth into the skin of her throat. She shudders, gasps, presses her hips flush against his, and he feels like they're going to go up in flames, burn out right against this door. He wonders how he hasn't realised, before now, how this built and built until it was a conflagration ready and waiting for someone to light a match.

"Coulson," she groans, kisses her way down his jaw and pushes at his jacket.

"Sling first," he says, his voice raw, and she steps back, pulls him by the hand over to the bed, kisses him again and begins to undress him with exquisite care. His sling comes off first, and then his tie, carefully unknotting the fine silk and sliding it off. Then she pulls off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, lets her fingers drift along his collarbones and push the thin cotton off his shoulders. She makes a noise, high, in her throat, pulls off his singlet, and then he can't wait anymore, he's unzipping her dress, lifting it up and over her head. She makes the same noise, again, presses her bare skin against his like she can't get enough, and from the mini-bar there's a fine hum as the crystal glasses start to vibrate and sing.

"Are you, are you  _doing that_ ," he gasps into her mouth, and she nods, laughs, skims her hands down to his belt to deftly unbuckle it. And then his phone rings, and she groans as he fumbles it out of his pocket.

"It's Fitz," he says, out of breath, and she bites the side of his neck, experimentally.

"Can you ignore it?"

"It could be an emergency, or he could be calling to tell me his sweater is itchy," he replies, presses the accept call button. "Fitz? This better be an emergency."

It's an emergency. "Okay," he tells Fitz. "We'll be there in three hours. Hold tight. Don't call May, she's in Fiji, she will _not_ be happy. We'll deal with it." He hangs up the phone. Skye looks torn between concern and arousal. "Jemma's gone missing," he tells her without preamble. "Fitz saw her a few hours ago, thought they were going for dinner. She never showed up. He didn't look, for a while, thought he'd misread the situation, but the case of that stone artifact was open, when he finally went looking.  _Fuck_ , Skye, fucking hell, I, fuck, I should have  _been there_."

Skye takes his hand, presses a kiss to his palm. "We'll make it," she says, "we'll find her." Coulson takes a deep breath, brushes a kiss over her hair.

"You're right," he says, and then " _fuck_ , this is terrible timing, Skye, I-"

"We can't take twenty minutes, can we?" she asks, teasing, and he groans.

"You think we'd stop at twenty minutes?" Her eyes widen, and he hears her breath catch in her throat, and then she flings herself at him, again, kisses him hard and biting and sharp.

"Clothes," she says, between kisses. "We should - clothes, the car-"

"Uh huh," Coulson replies, drags her in again for another kiss. Skye moans, leans into it, then breaks away with Herculean effort.

" _Clothes_ ," she says again, "Jesus  _Christ,_ Coulson, your  _mouth._ " She looks wrecked, pupils blown wide, and Coulson can't believe that this is him, that this is  _them_.

"Yeah," he agrees, takes another deep breath. "Yes. Fuck. Okay." She hands him his undershirt, kicks off her shoes and pulls on her jeans, comes back to help him button his shirt. He watches her the whole time, memorises the curve of her shoulders, the way she bites her lip in concentration. It's all he can do not to pull her back into a kiss. And then she's undoing his belt and his fly to tuck his shirt back in, and he has a moment of deja vu, of her fingers pressed hard against his hipbone. He holds his breath, and Skye drags her fingers, slow and deliberate, up his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. He's instantly, achingly hard.

"Oh  _god_ ," he says, low and breathless, and she smirks, presses a kiss quick to the corner of his mouth, does up his belt and moves away to put her own shirt on.

 

+

 

Skye drives faster than he's ever seen her, silent and focused and powerful. She's left the top down, letting the dark of the desert night press in on them, and as the lights of Vegas fade behind them, Coulson feels dumbly elf-struck, like she's spirited him away to a world that shouldn't exist. It seems like years since they left the team.

They're deep in the desert, an hour or so away from the base, when she slows the car to a halt. Coulson's confused, at first, until she undoes her seatbelt, climbs out of the driver's seat and into his lap.

"I can't- Coulson, I can't  _wait_ , I just," she admits, and all the desire he's tamped down comes back in a wave, cresting over him. Skye grinds down onto him, and he curls his fingers up into her hair, pulls her down so he can kiss her, slides his hand down to cup her breast through her shirt. She moans, fumbles with his belt, undoes her jeans and pushes them down along with her underwear.

"We could've, in the hotel, if," he gets out, his voice husky, and she shakes her head, pulls his cock out of his pants and presses it against herself, pushing in the very tip. She's soaking wet, and he groans at how  _good_ it feels.

"Skye, are you, are you  _sure_ ," he says, again, and she bites his lower lip hard, sinks down until he's pressed deep inside her. She doesn't move for a long moment, which is good, which is  _excellent_ , because Coulson feels like he's holding on by the thinnest hair imaginable.

"I didn't, I wasn't-  _fuck_ , Coulson - I wasn't sure I wouldn't smash all the glass in the room," she gets out eventually, starts rolling her hips in a slow rhythm. He feels like he can't do anything but grab her, hold on, like he's riding out a natural disaster. He's not sure he'll make it out of this in one piece. It's  _so worth it._

He kisses her again, tastes metal and realises she's drawn blood, biting him. The wind ruffles her hair and he moves his fingers down to slide over her clit; she moans loud, fucks him harder and faster, and Jesus  _Christ_ he's going to come soon, feels like his skin is on fire with it. He presses his thumb down, rubs her clit and mouths kisses down the side of her throat, and she comes apart in his lap, shaking like an earthquake, crying out into the night. It's enough to push him over the edge; he comes so hard his vision whites out.

The edge of the sky is lightening with dawn.

 

+

 

Fitz is fairly vibrating with guilt and anxiety, when they get into the Playground, and Coulson has to switch gears quickly to manage the situation. "It's okay, Fitz," he says, reassuringly. "We'll find Jemma, don't worry. We'll figure it out."

" _No,_ sir, that- that's the  _thing_ ," Fitz says, urgently. "That  _thing_ , I swear, it  _ate_ her, I  _swear_ , and it's my, it's my  _fault_ , I stumbled on the latch and I must have unlocked it and I, I thought she just didn't want to have dinner, that she'd changed her mind." Skye puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, rubs his back, tells him to breathe. Coulson is thinking about what Fitz has just said. 

"What do you mean, it ate her," he asks, quietly. Fitz looks up at him.

"The security footage," he says, and Coulson blinks.

The security footage, when Mack pulls it up - looking almost as shaken as Fitz, and that's not a good sign, Coulson thinks - is bizarre, for lack of a better word. Fitz comes in, talks to Jemma, leans against the glass of the crate and accidentally unlatches the door. Then he disappears, and the door swings open. Jemma notices, goes to close it, and the stone melts into liquid, sucks her up, reforms.

"What the  _fuck_ ," Skye breathes, rewinds to watch it again in slow motion.

"Have you been in there, since? Any of you?" Coulson demands. Mack shakes his head. 

"Only to look for her, sir, once Fitz realised something was wrong. And to re-secure the object."

"Has it  _ever_ done this before, on your watch?"

"No, sir. Never."

They have to assess the situation, obviously, so Coulson leads the way down to the artifacts room. Skye's right there beside him, looking concerned but not fearful, taking point just like May taught her.

The artifacts room is deserted. Coulson feels uneasy, like they're back in San Juan, like something terrible is going to happen. Something terrible already  _has_ , he reminds himself. Skye approachs the crate, reaching a hand out to the latch, and he hisses at her.

" _Skye_ , what are you-"

"If Jemma's still  _in there_ ," she points out, "we're going to have to open the door eventually. This is Kree stuff, right? If it's anything like the Diviner, I've got a better chance with it than anyone else in this base." She has a point. He nods, gestures at Mack and Fitz to stand guard. Skye undoes the latch, cautiously opens the door. Nothing happens. She takes a small step inside, reaches a hand tentatively out toward the stone.

Three things happen in quick succession. Coulson sees the stone begin to shift, and moves in what feels like an impossibly fast reaction to grab Skye and pull her out of the way. He's not quite fast enough; the weirdly liquid substance brushes across her hand as he yanks her out of the crate. There's a huge, terrifying rumble, and then the lights blow out, windows smash, the floor cracks beneath their feet. In the darkness, Coulson hears someone screaming.

"Jemma?" Fitz shouts, and then, " _Jemma_!"

The emergency lights flicker on, and Coulson looks around to see that Jemma's the source of the screaming. She's in a huddle on the floor, incoherently hysterical, clinging to Fitz for dear life. The stone's back to a solid form, again, looking black and ominous in the dim light, and Mack looks like he's pushing through real and solid terror to close the door up, lock it away.

Skye is unconscious, three fingers of her hand that'd touched the stone curled in a way that doesn't look natural, and the base won't quit shaking. It's a constant earthquake like it had been before she'd gained control of her power. Coulson feels cold horror, lifts her up.

"Mack," he says. "Get Jemma, we have to get them both to the lab.  _Now_."

 

+

 

Moving Skye to a bed in the lab seems to have quietened the tremors some. There's a low-level vibration, a hum that gets into his bones, and occasional little shakes that set everyone on edge, but nothing like the violent shaking there had been. They give her a sedative, and the vibration dissipates as Skye relaxes into the bed, still unconscious but less terribly so, somehow.

Jemma's quietened down too, in no small part due to a sedative too, something one of her own medical assistants has carefully administered. She's curled up on a gurney with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, still clinging to Fitz and letting out an occasional sob. Coulson wants to talk to her, to find out _what the hell happened_ , but it can wait. He thinks she's not in the right space for it right now, and Skye's his priority.

The lab tech checks her over carefully, shines a light in her eyes, takes her pulse, examines her injured hand and gasps softly. "What's  _wrong_ ," Coulson snaps, because  _god_ ,  _Skye_ , and the tech's eyes widen.

"It's just... I'll need to run an X-ray, but it looks as if her fingers are broken. Sir."

"Run it," he says, tightly, and when they do, it's  _weirder_ , because her fingers are broken, in complex spiral fractures, from a force radiating from the  _inside_.

"Is this like the stress fractures? Turning her powers inward?" he asks, wishing like hell Jemma was awake because for all her fear around Inhumans, she's the best doctor he knows, and the only one he trusts without reserve.

"No, sir, it's like... it's like something burst  _out_ of her," the tech says, cautiously, and whatever she sees on his face makes her back away.

It's at that moment that Weaver stalks in, all tightly-contained fear, and Coulson thinks,  _here we go._

"Has the threat been neutralised?" she demands crisply, and he stands to face her.

" _Agent S_ _kye_ is still unconscious and needs treatment for her injuries, Agent Weaver."

"She's a threat, Coulson, she clearly cannot control her powers and she is a danger to this facility! You  _must_ understand that!"

"She's not a  _threat_ ," Fitz pipes up, "it's that thingin the storage room that's a  _threat_. That _thing_  nearly killed Jemma! She'd still be- be trapped, if it weren't for Skye, she's a bloody  _hero_." Weaver ignores Fitz entirely, not even glancing at him, and Coulson has to take a deep breath at the audacity.

"Fitz is right," he says, evenly. "Skye has control. It's the Kree stone in that crate that triggered this, and it happened because she was rescuing another agent.  _That stone_ is the threat here, and I'm sure I do not need to remind you that _your people_ brought it here, against Fury's explicit orders. Fury demanded Gonzales sink the Iliad for a reason. If anything's going to be moved off base, it's that stone."

"You're irretrievably compromised," Weaver accuses him. "She's a threat, Coulson, she's been a threat to everyone in SHIELD since the day she came out of that city, and if you cannot see that, you need to  _stand down_ , Director, _immediately_."

"She's my wife," he bites out, furious, and the lab goes hushed and still.  _This isn't how Skye would want to tell them_ , he thinks, distantly, but he's too angry for that. "This isn't  _compromised_ , this isn't me ignoring danger, she's my  _wife_ , and you will move her out of the base over my dead body."

 

+

 

"I hear congratulations are in order," Hunter says, dropping down into a chair next to him in the infirmary, handing him a beer that he takes automatically, and Coulson sighs.

" _Really_ not the time, Hunter," he replies, and Hunter huffs a short laugh.

"Heard you yelling. Hard not to, really. And the thing is, sir, you're wrong, aren't you." Coulson frowns at Hunter, opens his mouth to speak, and Hunter goes on. "The thing about us, Coulson, is we're  _spies._ Secret agents and spies. Love, compromised, they don't mean shit but they're one and the same. You think I don't know that? Bobbi doesn't know that? You think  _Grant Ward_ didn't know that, when he set a trap he knew I'd walk into without fail, with Bobbi at the center? She wouldn't have a bullet through her shoulder, if we weren't  _compromised_. You can't take love without the other, mate, and that's the truth."

"Audrey and I..." Coulson starts, and Hunter laughs again.

"With all due respect, sir,  _Audrey_ thinks you're dead and you've let her think that for the last two years," he says, not unkindly. "You think Skye would just move on, thinking you were dead? You think you'd _let_ her? You're a good man, Coulson, and you'd go down for the team. You grabbed that diviner crystal and all. I respect that. But the difference is, you'd go down for the team, if you thought it meant they'd live.  _She_ goes down, you'd walk down there right behind her, without even looking back. You've been compromised since the day she first walked in."

Coulson swallows, looks down at the bottle in his hand and the gold band on his finger, and Hunter claps him on the shoulder.

"Jeez, man, don't take it so hard. I'm not saying it's impossible. Bob and I, we're making it work. The thing is, sir, don't look at it as one or the other. You've gotta own the compromise, own that she's got something on you. That you have something on each other. Make it a strength. Fuck, the two of you? You'd be unstoppable."

Phil lets out a breath, shaky. "How'd you know? I mean, you're not wrong, but, how?"

"You think I can't recognise the look on your face? Mate, it's the same feeling I wake up with every fucking morning. From one lovesick sap to another, cheers." Hunter clinks his beer against Coulson's, takes a long pull. His eyes are on Bobbi, still asleep in the infirmary bed next to Skye.

 


	4. they say love hurts (but I know it's gonna take a little work)

Coulson feels like he waits at Skye's side for hours, as she sleeps off the sedative. It feels like bad deja vu, his chest aching with worry and bad memories of all the times he's done this before (all the times she's done this for him, too). Finally, her eyelids flicker, and she fights her way out of sleep, waking with a start.

"Hey," he says gently. "How're you feeling."

"...ow," she replies faintly. "No, seriously,  _ow_."

"Three broken fingers and a cracked rib, because you're an _idiot hero_ and I love you," he tells her, feeling impossibly fond, presses a kiss to her uninjured hand. "Also, I might have caused irreparable damage to SHIELD cross-faction relationships. We'll see." She frowns, pushes herself up painfully until she's sitting. 

"Where's Jemma?"

"Safe," he says, and Skye breathes out in relief. "Here, let me-" He quickly fluffs the pillows, props Skye up carefully, ensures she's sitting comfortably. It takes her a moment, to process what he's said, still groggy from sedation.

"Wait, you... what?"

"I caused a scene," he confesses. "And I, uh, may not have announced our marriage in the  _most_ tactful way."

"Phil Coulson, what did you  _do_ ," she hisses, and he smiles, can't help it, beams at her in what he knows,  _knows_ is a hearts-for-eyes-giddy way. It's been so long that he's held all these feelings at bay, and now they're married -  _married_ , he marvels - and he doesn't have to keep this professional, anymore. 

Skye blinks, and he realises he's said all this out loud.

"Coulson," she asks gently, "when did you _sleep_?" He has to think about it for way too long, and she sighs, smiles tiredly at him.

"Okay, so I'm running on adrenaline and fumes by now," he admits. "Maybe let's wait to clear the air with Agent Weaver until everyone's had a chance to sleep, huh." She nods, squeezes his hand, and looks ruefully down at her own injured hand, now in a cast halfway up her forearm and a sling of her own.

" _Ow_ ," she says again, plaintively, and he leans in, brushes a kiss to her cheek. There's a cautious, semi-outraged noise from the doorway, and they look up to see Fitz, hovering a bit awkwardly and holding a plate with what looks like a sandwich.

"...Hi," he says, realising he's been noticed. "I, ah, I, I hope I'm not interrupting anything but I wanted to tell you, also, that it was a  _very brave thing_ you did, Skye, and I'm extremely glad to have Jemma back, and we, um, we thinkyoushouldbeveryhappytogether and  _also_ I made you a sandwich." It takes a moment for Coulson to gather his thoughts enough to follow what Fitz is saying. Skye's faster on the uptake. 

"A sandwich? Hey, thanks, Fitz, I'm _starving_ ," she says, and he loses his nervousness, a bit, comes over and hands her the plate.

"It's, ah, prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella," he tells her, "with a  _hint_ of pesto aioli. Jemma, Jemma usually makes it for me, but she, she wasn't really up to, um, standing. So she told me how to make it, this time. In  _great detail_. I hope it's good. I was a little concerned about the flavour balance of the pesto, actually." Skye takes a bite, beams at Fitz. Coulson's not envious of a  _sandwich_ because that would be ridiculous.

"It's really good," she tells Fitz with enthusiasm, and he grins.

"That's, that's great, I will  _let her know_ , because she is very deeply concerned right now," he says, disappears back off into the lab, and Skye laughs.

"Did we just get Fitzsimmons' blessing for our marriage, in sandwich form?" she asks, and Coulson nods, steals the other half while she's distracted. "Hey!" she protests. "Inhuman metabolism over here, super hungry, just kind of actually totally saved one of our team from uncertain scary Kree weirdness?"

"Too bad," Coulson says. "We're married. I get half your stuff."

Skye's right. The sandwich  _is_ really good.

 

+

 

He tells her, after they've eaten, about what went down with Weaver. He doesn't go over his conversation with Hunter; that feels too personal, and also he thinks Skye has a better handle on it, has already thought through the ways in which they're compromised and not-compromised and generally just a glorious natural disaster waiting to happen. She kisses him, when he tells her about the impromptu little speech he made, and he pretends not to see her blink tears away.

"You're so  _stupid_ ," she tells him, "that was  _so dumb_ , Coulson, jeez, but I love that you did it."

He has to admit, he kind of loves that he did it too. It's classic Director Coulson, he thinks wryly, or at least, classic Director Coulson since Skye came on the scene. Hunter was  _so right_.

"Anyway," Skye says, brushing crumbs off her lap. "Am I... moving off-base?"

"No," Coulson replies emphatically, "but- I thought you might want to move anyway, out of your bunk? And into, uh, my quarters?" Her eyes widen in what he thinks is very satisfying surprise. "I mean," he adds, "I could come share your bunk, instead, but it might be a bit of a squeeze. I'm used to accommodation of a certain style, you understand."

"How will I ever survive this kind of torture," she mutters, and then, " _yes_ , that- that sounds great, Coulson, yeah." 

They're on the way to his quarters, Skye having adamantly insisted that she does _not_  need a wheelchair, her legs are working just fine (but Coulson notes she's made him carry her box of stuff from her bunk) when they run into Mack.

"Hey, Tremors," he says easily. "Great work on the secret wedding business."

"I asked him," Skye replies, cheeky. "Secret Vegas elopement, you know how it is. You know he'd never have mustered up the courage, otherwise." Mack cracks up, punches her gently on the shoulder, looks them both over.

"You, uh, gonna be alright with all that?" he asks, gesturing at the duffle bag, the box. "Looks like you could both use a hand. You've gotta be more careful, the both of you." Coulson stares at him for way too long, feeling every one of his 30-odd hours without sleep, and Mack shifts a little uncomfortably, but Skye snorts with laughter.

"Oh my god, Mack, you cut off his hand with an axe less than two weeks ago and you're already making jokes?" _  
_

"Hey," Mack replies, raising both hands in mock-defeat. "I ain't the one-handed power couple here, just saying. Go on, get out of here before you run into Weaver, she's still sore about this morning. Called May up in Fiji and everything." Coulson winces, gives Mack what he hopes is an appreciative smile, and they take his advice to beat a hasty retreat.

 

+

 

"Do you think the whole team's just been secretly rooting for us, or what?" Skye asks curiously, flopping back on his bed ( _their_ bed, Coulson thinks, and has a moment of breathless, panicky joy). He shrugs, because honestly, he's really not sure what May's response will be, has been. He knows things are bad, between them, and she has a right to be upset - she'd been left in the dark, about Theta Protocol, in a way that he agrees in hindsight was a bit unforgivable. A lot unforgivable. 

He just hopes she'll realise he'd been leaving himself in the dark, too, about Skye.

"I want to bring May in, on Caterpillar," he tells her, and Skye nods thoughtfully. He's glad she thinks it's the right idea - he'd already run it past Andrew, to get his opinion on Skye's readiness to lead, but May deserves to know, too. "But, right now I just need some sleep," he admits, and Skye nods again, gets up, tugs the blinds closed and watches as he takes off his sling and jacket, then comes over to gently finish undressing him.

"Some honeymoon," she says lightly, and he laughs, leans in for a kiss as she slides his shirt off.

"After all this, we're going to the Retreat for a week," he retorts. "I'll make you grilled cheese for every meal, we can swim in the lake, do basically nothing at all."

"Mmm," she agrees. "It has a big bed, too. Nice and sturdy." That sends a flicker of heat through him, something he wishes he could act on, especially when Skye shucks off her own jeans and flannel, awkwardly undoes her bra one-handed. He realizes he's never actually seen her naked before, and has a sudden moment of how backwards everything's been, how they flung themselves headfirst into something huge and raw and wild. Then she steps into his personal space, pulls him down for a kiss, and it's so good he lets his overthinking go, flow through him like a river. She drags him into a warm shower with her (regretting every moment that he can't take advantage of her soap-slick body, remembering that he'll have weeks, months, years ahead where he can, they can, do exactly that) then into bed where he falls gratefully into a soft, deep, quiet sleep.

 

+

 

When he wakes, in what feels like the dusk light of early evening, it's to Skye's warmth pressed against him, and he has another moment of deja vu, of her knee tucked up against his leg, the trembling stillness of their Vegas hotel room. Then she bites gently at his shoulder, follows it with kisses trailing down his chest. She presses her mouth against his scar, traces it with her tongue, and he hears himself gasp.

"I know it was horrific, and all, and, y'know, alien carvings, but," she says softly, her breath gusting over his skin, "I'm  _really glad_ you're alive, now, that Fury put you back together piece by piece for me to find." And then she's wriggling lower, her head disappearing under the covers, and he feels like he's grabbed a live wire, like every nerve in his body is on edge, as she slides her mouth hot and wet and slow over his cock.

"Fuuuu _uuuuuck_ , Skye," he gets out, arching up into it, and she grabs him with her uninjured hand, digs her fingers into his hipbone in a way that makes him know he'll have bruises there, tomorrow, and begins to blow him in earnest. He can't do anything but moan and gasp, remembers how she fucked him, last night, in the passenger seat of Lola, and feels his brain short out at the idea of this, _forever_.

He tangles his hand in her hair, experimentally tightens his fingers to  _pull_ , just a little, and the noise she makes around his cock makes him get impossibly harder. Now that he knows what to look for he knows she's about teeth, about fucking like they're sparring, about riding an edge of pain all the way to the brink, and Jesus _Christ_ it's good, it's so damn good, he can't-  He comes, his fingers clenching in her hair, and she  _Jesus fucking hell_ swallows around him, keeps going until he's oversensitive enough that he cries out, pulls her off.

She looks  _way_ too smug, when she crawls back up his body, so he grabs her by the thighs, pulls her onto his face, and proceeds to eat her out for the next half-hour, bringing her up to the edge and teasingly swirling his tongue around her clit for  _ages_ and letting her get to ragged, breathless begging before he finally presses his fingers in, lets her ride against his mouth, scrapes his teeth and stubble against her just enough to hear her moan and come hot and hard and fast, wet and slick against his chin. 

_Christ_ , he thinks again, prayerfully, looking up at her all trembling and shaky above him, and wonders how they haven't collapsed the base right down on top of them.


	5. let's build something bright and new

By everyone's silent mutual agreement, they wait to hash it out with Agent Weaver until morning, when everyone (Coulson) has slept for a good nine hours, and nobody (Jemma, Skye) is sedated or on strong pain medication. Simmons fusses over Skye's fingers, in the lab, but she insists that she's fine, she's healing, and Coulson shrugs his shoulders, in the end, raises his eyebrows at Simmons over Skye's shoulder until she cracks a smile and quits trying to send Skye for more tests.

Weaver finds them in the lab, asks them shortly to join her privately in the briefing room, and Skye shakes her head.

"No," she says quietly, "the team have a right to be part of this." Jemma pats her only a little awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Don't  _worry_ ," she says helpfully, "I'm sure it can't be so very terrible. Except for how you  _got married without us_ , that bit we are going to discuss  _later_ , aren't we? Because I could have been your _bridesmaid._ "

"Sure," Skye mutters, glares at Coulson. "A little help here?"

"Hey," Coulson tells her, smirking. "You asked me, remember." The poke he gets to his ribs is totally worth it.

Everyone's gathered, in the briefing room, and Coulson feels like this is going to be a truly embarrassing shitshow about his important but unprofessional feelings. He's been through worse, he guesses - explaining he's not actually an alien-bugfucked violent disaster, he's just happened to closely resemble one for the last three months, for one - but nevertheless.  _Nevertheless_.

Agent Weaver coughs, draws attention, and then Hunter breaks the silence in a way that Coulson feels only Hunter is capable of.

"Let's hear it for the newlyweds, hmm? Anyone got any rice to throw? No? Pity," he says, ignores Weaver's annoyed frown. Coulson is giving that man a  _raise_.

"Look," Coulson starts, and Skye stops him, sliding her hand into his.

"Yeah," she says, looking down at where their fingers are intertwined. "Yeah, we're married. But that's not what this is about, right? Like, I love the man. I do. You all can tell me that it's unprofessional, or that we shouldn't have done it, but there are no fraternization rules anymore, and he's not my SO, and I am  _here for SHIELD_ in any capacity I can be. So my loyalties lie with SHIELD, and with the Director. That's it. That's all."

"You've _proved_ that you're dangerous," Weaver says, in what Coulson thinks is a frankly unnecessary tone.

"Yeah," Skye returns, not defiantly or angrily but just thoughtful, acknowledging the point. "Yeah. I'm dangerous. But I'm not a  _danger._ " ( _I could tear this continent apart_ , Coulson thinks, and squeezes her hand.) "I know you faced a powered person at the Academy. I can understand why you're afraid. But I'm not, I'm not a  _threat_ , to SHIELD, or to you, or to anyone in this room. All I want is to protect people."

"You leveled a team of SHIELD agents, left Agent Calderon in critical condition," Weaver responds, and at that Skye takes a breath, grits her jaw.

"Your agents were  _sent to kill me_ , Agent Weaver, sent to  _take a threat down_ , so don't go down that road. I was no threat to anyone except Gonzales' idea of SHIELD power structures."

"Your mother  _killed_ Gonzales," Weaver accuses, and at that Mack makes a disgusted noise. He's not the only one.

"Lay _off_ , Weaver, that's unnecessary," he says, to mutters of approval, and Coulson feels a touch of pride, that the team is backing Skye so strongly.

"It's true," Skye acknowledges. "She did. And then she tried to kill me, so that point's kind of moot. I'm not my  _mother_ , Agent, and it's not a nice thing you just said, okay."

There's a beat, and Weaver sighs. "You're right. I apologize, Agent Skye, it was uncalled for." Skye nods, at that, relaxes her shoulders. Coulson can tell how much energy she's expending, working to stay relaxed, to keep anything from rattling or trembling. It's a sight to behold, he thinks.

"It's Agent Coulson, actually, going forward," she says quietly, and  _that's_ a surprise even to Coulson. He looks at Skye in something like wonder, and she scrunches her face back at him, in the best non-verbal  _what_ he's ever seen. In the background, Jemma says, "Aawww, that's  _sweet_ , isn't it," and Hunter mutters something back that sounds remarkably like  _two Coulsons, are you flipping serious, mate._

"Agent Coulson, then. I called May, as you're probably aware," Weaver states, ignoring the Greek chorus remarkably well. "She says, and I quote: "tell those damn fools it's about time they figured something out. And don't interrupt my vacation again, I'm on the beach here."" Behind them, someone snorts. It sounds like Hunter.

"So," Coulson says, moving past that moment. "Where do we go from here?" Weaver sighs again, looks to the team. Mack pipes up, to Coulson's surprise.

"With all due respect, ma'am, and no offence to the Director, they're idiots. But they're  _our_ idiots." Hunter snorts again. Coulson's reconsidering that raise. 

"My reports can't be public," Skye says. "They can't be transparent in the way that you want. They go to the Director. I'm working with powered people, they deserve protection, and frankly, Agent Weaver, I think I'm right to distrust some of those in your area of SHIELD.  _But_ ," she adds, as Weaver looks to protest, "my reports will go to May too. She's still my SO. Anything she thinks is of concern, she can take wider. I trust her judgment on this. That's all."

Agent Weaver looks uncomfortable, still, but satisfied in a way that Coulson thinks is acceptable, here. She nods, once, gives Skye a respectful glance. It's something, he thinks. It's a sight better than he would have gotten. He wonders when Skye got so damn  _good_ at this.

 

+

 

Discussing what the Kree monolith did, by contrast, is significantly less tense. They settle around the table so Simmons can show them her data. Coulson interrupts, because the data is all well and good, but-

"Jemma, what did it actually  _do_? Where did you  _go_?"

"I don't know," Jemma admits. "I was in the storage vault, and then it was sucking me in, and then I was just  _trapped_ , for hours, in darkness that I couldn't touch, or feel, or move. It was terrifying, sir, it really was."

"I have a theory," Skye says. "I think it's designed to destroy Inhumans. When it, when it touchedme, it felt like it was pulling my power  _out._ That's why the quakes started again, even though I was unconscious - it had that bit of power under some kind of control, at least until you sedated me. If it had been Lincoln, maybe it would have been a huge electrical pulse instead of tremors. And if it had engulfed me the way it did to Jemma, it would have been able to pull it  _all_ out."

"That makes sense," Jemma agrees. "The way your fingers are fractured, with the outwardly radiating force, that would explain what it was doing. But does that mean it's sentient? And then why  _me_? Why hasn't it reacted to anyone else?"

"It could be because you're a, ah, a potential," Fitz says, cautiously. "Maybe it was reacting to the potentiality in your genetic structure."

"You think I could be Inhuman?" Jemma asks in surprise, looking concerned.

"Maybe," he says. "I mean, we don't know, do we? We've not been able to pick anything up in Skye's pre-change tests that indicated she had the potential for it, but the Diviner was able to tell. This is Kree too, so perhaps it reads the same information. Perhaps it released  _you_ because it picked up that a fully-fledged Inhuman was a better target."

"If it could, could pull out your power, could that be a treatment, for Inhuman powers?" Weaver asks, and Skye frowns.

"Sure," she says flatly, "except that it'd pull me to pieces in the process, leave me nothing but a husk. It's not a  _treatment_ , it's a  _destroyer_." Coulson shifts, remembering how pale she'd looked unconscious in the lab bed. He slides his hand surreptitiously onto her knee, as much to comfort himself as to comfort her. She grips his hand, sliding her thumb over his wedding band reassuringly.

"We are locking that thing away  _way deeper in the basement_ ," Mack says, in the end, and Coulson laughs, has to agree. "You are  _never doing science on it again_ , okay, never."

 

+

 

"So," May says. "You eloped. To  _Vegas_."

"Took a leaf out of your book," Coulson shrugs, and May smiles.

"Knew I should never have let Andrew give Skye that detail," she agrees ruefully. "Should have known she'd take it one step further. And I _like_ Vegas." She pauses, looks at him for a long beat, glances over at Skye. "Phil," she says eventually. "You asked me, a while back, if I'd ever felt like I mishandled something important. You remember what I said, right?"

"Yes," Coulson says. "Are you... is this you telling me that you're reconciling with Andrew? Because I think that's fairly obvious, May, you've just been on a holiday with the man. It's not exactly news. Congratulations, though."

"No," May replies, exasperated. "It's me saying, you made the right call. I think life's too short for you to hold back on this. And I... I'm happy for you, Phil. I'm happy for you both."

"Oh," Coulson says, and yeah, he's taken aback; he didn't expect to get May's blessing on this so easily, or at all, but it feels good. "Thanks, Melinda." He smiles at her, glances to Skye and lets his smile fill up with the wonder he still feels, and May groans.

"Jesus, Phil, you literally have hearts for eyes, how's the team been able to  _cope_ ," she teases him, and he knows he's blushing.

"I love her," he says easily. "It's  _good_ , May, I love her and somehow she loves me, and, it's  _good_ , it's  _great_."

"Yeah," she agrees, and from the way her eyes go soft he gets the feeling she's thinking of Andrew.

"We're building something new here, all of us," he says, and then Skye's at his side, sliding her hand into his just the tiniest bit shy, and May nods at her.

"Hey, May, how was Fiji?" Skye asks. "I hope you lay on the beach the  _whole time_." _  
_

"Not as exciting as Vegas, apparently. I hear you're Agent Coulson, now. Congratulations, Skye, although if you could get the Director to look like less of a total sap, it'd be appreciated." Skye laughs, bumps her shoulder against his.

"I'm no help on that front, sorry," she responds, "but we've got a honeymoon to plan, hopefully he can get it all out of his system."

"Good," May says, "this base can't handle pining orphans in love, Coulsons, get a handle on it." She smirks, steps away, and Coulson can't help it, looks down at Skye with particularly fond eyes.

"That was...  _unexpected_ ," Skye says, quirking an eyebrow. He smiles.

"She's in a good mood," he tells her. "I think the break did her good. I think it did us good, too."

"Yeah?" she asks, and Coulson knows,  _knows_ , that if they were alone right now he'd be kissing her breathless. He lets her see it in his expression, instead, and is gratified when she blushes.

"Yeah. I'm tired of us saying no. I'm glad we started saying yes," he says, and feels his heart beat along with his words, strong and hard and certain,  _yes, yes, yes._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my notes for this were literally "Vegas elopement fluff fic stars in their eyes" and I guess it was supposed to be a fun little fic about a Vegas elopement, and... it wasn't, but I love it anyway, and I love these pining idiots and how in love they are.
> 
> I don't maybe recommend getting married as the starting point of a relationship, but I think it could work for Skoulson, because hello, they've totally been building to this for, like, ever.


End file.
